


If only tonight

by fallenstar



Category: Placebo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:14:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallenstar/pseuds/fallenstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drunk and disoriented, Steve is spotted by a Breed fan whilst dining at Burger King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If only tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Afueras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afueras/gifts).



> this is the worst thing I've ever written but you deserve a gift and this is the best I can do!
> 
> *usual warnings for drug use, swearing, sex and ham-fisted metaphors*

A bitter wind cuts through the air, whipping his hair against his face; he tugs his coat tighter around himself. Steve staggers forward, searching the on-comers for a familiar face. _The bastards have gone without me_ , he realises.

The last train has long since left the tube and a taxi home alone would cost him an arm and a leg. He peers ahead, walking headlong into falling sleet. Jostling groups of friends shove past him; he wonders where the next pub is, desperate to get in out of the cold.

A neon sign glows at the end of the street and he squints to read it; _Burger King._

He strides ahead, imagining the greasy, salty goodness that awaits him. Steve swings open the heavy glass door and the smell of frying oil greets him; his stomach churns.

Fluorescent lighting casts an unearthly glow inside the restaurant. He lurches toward the counter and leans across it. A bulb flickers above him; the strobing light rattles his brain as he tries to interpret the menu board.

A teenage girl waltzes out from the kitchen, chewing gum with loud smacks as she approaches the counter.

“Welcome to Burger King, how may I help you?” She asks robotically, without interest or intonations. Steve frowns as he deliberates.

“The double… woah… whopper?” He finally says, eyeing the towering burger pictured on the board behind her.

“In a meal?” She asks, picking at her nail polish. Steve shrugs, confused as to what other purpose a burger has but as a meal.

“Eat in or take away?”

Steve glances through the windows behind him at the sludgy rain blowing down. He shudders as he turns back to her. He tries to remember her question; his mind is as hazy as the flurry outside.

“Eat away.”

The server stares, squelching her gum against the roof of her mouth.

“Two pound thirty,” she states, decidedly bored.

Steve wobbles as he reaches into his back pocket. He tosses a handful of coins on the counter, sliding them one at a time toward her, concentrating carefully on adding the total. The server taps her fingers on the register impatiently; she glances back into the kitchen and groans. Steve, finally satisfied with the payment, smiles at her; she scoops up the coins and dumps them unceremoniously into the cash tray.

She huffs as she turns to fill an enormous cup with soda, and then plonks it onto a plastic tray lined with paper. Steve looks intently at the liner, kids cartoons are printed on it. He squints as he tries to read the text; the letters fuzz and fade before his eyes.

The server returns with a box of fries; the potato straws are limp and soggy. A wrapped burger slides down a shoot behind her and she snatches it up and dumps it onto the tray.

“Enjoy your meal,” she says, sounding like she would prefer him to choke on it.

Steve takes the tray and moves slowly towards the booths at the back of the restaurant. He slides the tray onto the table and flops down into the booth. His damp jacket squeaks against the plastic seat cover.

The food smells good; rich and oily, and slightly sweet. He unwraps the burger and takes it in both hands, mustering all his coordination. The burger looks nothing like the one pictured; limp lettuce and processed cheese atop layered meat patties of unidentifiable origin. Ketchup and mustard ooze as he tears into the burger.

He wolfs it down; in his boozy state the sandwich is the very definition of _delicious_. He sucks condiments from his fingers once he finishes, relishing the sweet and savoury flavours. He rubs his face, brushing crumbs from his scruffy stubble.

Steve leans back in his chair and belches, his ravenous hunger satisfied. His head has stopped swimming and his stomach has settled. From the corner of his eye he notices someone watching him. A girl, a goth maybe; her eyes darkened with kohl and mascara. A bob frames her face in loose waves, her black locks clashing with her pallid complexion.

Realising she has caught Steve’s eye, she offers him a half smile. She rests her head on a hand and turns her gaze down to the table. She idly drags a long French fry through a puddle of ketchup, leaving a smeared pattern on the tray liner.

Steve glances down at his own tray and spots a maze amongst the cartoons. He grins as he looks back over at her; she meets his eye and frowns, as if trying to place him.

Her face suddenly lights up; she leaps out of her seat and crosses the room. Steve takes in the sight; she wears an old Sonic Youth t-shirt and faded jeans; shiny boots peep out from beneath the torn hems.

 _She’s pretty,_ Steve considers, though a bit flat-chested for his liking, _and what a snoz_. Yet he loses himself in her big blue eyes; he imagines those full lips pressed against his own.

“It _is_ you!” She says, leaning over the table to get a closer look. Her voice throws Steve; he frowns at her.

“I saw you play tonight,” she says excitedly, sliding into the booth opposite him, “That new version of Wonderful Blade was really something, and that new one, y’know, that went dun-da-da-dun…”

Steve watches her play air-guitar, dark tresses falling over her face as she head bangs.

“You liked it?” He finally asks. She brushes her hair back roughly and grins.

“I loved it,” she giggles. Steve watches as she laughs, Adam’s apple bobbing on her throat.

“You’re a bloke,” Steve utters, astonished.

“If you like.”

The effeminate man reaches across the table.

“Brian,” he introduces himself, “Big fan.” 

“Steve,” the drummer starts, taking his hand cautiously, “Steve Hewitt.”

“ _I know!_ ” Brian says, his smile widening; Steve chuckles awkwardly.

He finds himself relaxing as the other man returns his handshake; there is something friendly in his firm grip. He struggles to comprehend the revelation, admiring Brian’s long lashes and pretty pout.

He quickly pulls his arm back, realising he has let the contact linger too long.

Brian beams at him, twirling a strand of hair around his finger. Steve is unsure what to say, so he just watches.

“May I?” Brian asks, motioning to the tall plastic cup between them.

“Sure.”

Steve looks on with curiosity as he drags the tray towards himself and then leans over, wrapping his lips around the straw and sucking down soda. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking as he notices Steve’s gaze. The drummer gawks; too drunk to mind his manners; too captivated to care. 

“So how long have you been playing?”

“Huh?”

“…The drums?”

Steve concentrates on Brian’s mouth; his words seem dissipate into the atmosphere before they can reach his ears.

“Christ, you lot really are thick,” Brian mumbles. He mimes a drum roll with a mocking expression, “How long have you been hitting things with sticks?”

The action forces Steve to focus on the conversation; he cracks up laughing.

“Right. Since I was a kid,” he finally answers. Brian’s face softens.

“You play professionally?”

Steve scoffs.

“I wish. I was training to be a carpenter but…” He searches for the right phrase. “I’m, well, I’m in between jobs at the moment. Gigging is barely enough to cover the bills but it’s for love, not money, right?”

Steve glances down at his hands, his palms rough and fingers calloused; his arms still ache with the effort he put into tonight’s set.

“Carpentry?” Brian asks with eyebrows raised. “Going for the full Jesus thing then?”

He leans over and brushes Steve’s shaggy hair. Butterflies fill his stomach as Brian slides his fingers though his mane.

“You bet,” he laughs, leaning back.

Brian shifts down into his seat.

“Are you in a band then?” Steve asks, assuming the shorter man’s appearance must be related to some creative outlet.

“Not a _band_ , exactly,” Brian replies. “I play guitar, and sing,” he states.

Steve struggles to hide his surprise as he imagines _that_ voice singing.

“I’m an actor by trade, actually,” he adds.

“Wait, let me guess; you dance too?” Steve says, only half joking. Brian makes jazz hands, laughing.

“I’m no triple threat,” he admits, “My sense of rhythm is certainly not in my feet.”

“You do stage or screen then?” Steve asks, wondering if he is actually speaking to someone renowned.

Brian sighs.

“Student projects, mainly,” he admits, “But I’m really focussing on the music stuff at the moment.”

Brian looks up at him hopefully and Steve realises that this is where his interest lies. He wants to tell the other man that he has it all wrong; _as if he has any worthy connections or advice_.

But Brian’s expression is more excited than expectant; Steve is encouraged by his enthusiasm.

“So, what kind of music are we talking here?” He finally asks.

A wide grin spreads across Brian’s face.

“It’s hard to describe… Nick Drake’s melancholy meets Morrissey’s more sardonic self-loathing. But with much more bite, y’know? Beat poetry punk,” Brian offers, still musing on the description.

Steve simply nods, impressed.

“I’m self-taught,” Brian says proudly, “So, I sort of just make it up as I go along.”

“But you don’t have a band?”

“No,” he says with a sad smile, “Everyone I used to jam with at college is really into Britpop these days.”

He sticks his finger down his throat to show his sentiments on the genre.

Steve snorts.

“Besides,” Brian adds, his tone more serious, “I can’t really afford a rehearsal space or anything.”

Steve nods, he knows that feeling well. Brian’s foot taps his beneath the table and he is unsure if it is on purpose or not. The drummer shifts around in his seat, his knee knocking Brian’s as he swings his legs back. Feeling awkward, he avoids the other man’s eye contact.

“I’m surprised to find you in here,” Brian says, gazing around the grotty restaurant. “It’s hardly fit for a rock star like yourself.”

Steve laughs.

“Pfft _, rock star_ ,” he scoffs. “I was out with mates, my bandmates, but lost them somewhere along the way. Came in here to get out of the cold.” Steve watches the blur of white blowing outside the windows.

 “I’ll probably hang about until the trains are running again.”

Brian’s mouth twists, he seems to be considering something. He glances down at the table and spots the plastic tray, then begins reading the paper liner. He tucks his hair back gently behind his ears, revealing pierced ears. Steve admires the little silver hoops; there is something endearing, almost child-like, about the look.

“Hey,” Brian says, giggling, “What did the hamburger say to the pickle?”

 Steve shakes his head.

“You’re _dill_ -icious!”                                                                  

“Oh, that was awful,” Steve groans.

He cannot help but grin as he takes in Brian's amusement.

The smaller man watches his reaction and Steve finds himself drawn once again to those brilliant blue eyes. He notices now that Brian’s pupils are huge, impossibly wide despite the harsh fluorescent lighting inside the restaurant.

“I can’t believe it’s really you,” Brian says, watching the drummer dreamily.

Steve splutters with laughter, struggling to take the other man's admiration seriously.

“Look, I was thinking, rather than wait around here… you could come back to mine, if you wanted?” Brian looks hopeful.

Steve grimaces; his heart is in his throat but he knows he has to dismiss the offer.

“Look mate, I’m flattered, but-”

“And so you should be,” Brian interrupts, “But I was actually wondering if you’d like to jam, not fuck.”

The other man watches him with a confident air; Steve flushes, embarrassed. He contemplates the idea; _it sure beats spending the night in this dump_. He wonders what Brian’s home looks like; he pictures candles, incense and velvet. 

“My flatmate’s out so we can make as much noise as we like,” Brian persuades.

Steve imagines his pale skin illuminated by moonlight, satin sheets; those cherry lips on his own.

Brian looks at him expectantly and Steve strokes his chin, willing himself to focus on _anything but that_.

“Have you got a kit?” He eventually asks.

Brian’s face falls, he chews his lips as he considers the question.

“Actually,” he says, perking up, “I think my flatmate has a set of bongos?”

“Brilliant!” Steve slaps the table loudly. “What was it you said? Beat poetry punk?”

Brian’s eyes sparkle as he smiles.  

“Come on,” he says, pulling Steve from his seat. The drummer stands slowly, bracing himself for head-spins and nausea. The sickness never comes; he feels giddy instead and struggles to keep from giggling. 

Brian’s hand tightens around Steve’s as he leads them to the exit. The server turns to sneer as they leave; Steve grins as her, his body tingling with nervous excitement.

He curses as they step out into the cold, the icy wind stinging his skin. Brian leads them down the street, marching into the rain as he pulls the drummer along. Steve begins to take his hand from the other man’s but something about the way his palm fits in his is comforting; his self-consciousness is suppressed.

“Is it far?” He shouts above the howling wind. Brian pauses, cocking his head to indicate that he cannot hear. He turns back to face Steve, leaning in against him, head tilted to catch his question.

Steve gulps, the closer contact catching him off guard.

“Far to go?” He finally manages to ask.

Brian wraps his free arm around himself and smiles sympathetically.

“Not too far,” he yells back.

Steve watches Brian shiver; spots the goose-bumps rippling across his arms, his hairs on end. He pulls his hand from Brian’s; the smaller man looks hurt.

Steve shrugs his jacket off and slides it over his shoulders. He cringes as the chill sweeps across his exposed arms.

Brian beams up at him, biting his lip to contain the wide smile.

Steve feels himself flush and he glances away, reminding himself once again that this is a _man_ he is with, despite all appearances.

Brian seems to sense his hesitation, and rather than take his hand, he slinks his arm in Steve’s, leading them forward into the night through the blur of falling sleet.

They move from the main street down lane ways and alleys; there are fewer streetlights and the snowfall is heavier. Brian is unfazed by the catcalls, the shadowy figures on street corners and crouched in back streets. In fact, he seems to grow bolder with each encounter, his head held high and his sharp tongue offering cutting comebacks to each lewd or threatening remark.

Steve finds himself in awe of his new friend, he had figured that the effeminate man would shrink away from such confrontations, not spur them on.      

They take a short-cut through a park and Steve inhales deeply; the scent of damp foliage is a welcome change to the usual stink of the city. Branches shake violently in the wind, casting eerie shadows against the falling snow. A block of flats looms before them and Steve is filled with relief as he realises that they are heading for the entrance.

Brian digs his free hand into his pocket, loose change jingling as he pulls out his key. He offers Steve a shy smile as they enter the complex, loosening his grip on the drummer’s arm but not letting him go.

Steve grins back at him, mesmerised.

Fresh graffiti adorns the walls and broken glass crunches underfoot but Steve hardly notices. Brian leads him past the remains of an elevator; the safety doors have been torn apart to reveal an empty shaft.

The stairwell smells damp, the slats sagging beneath their weight as they climb. Brian leads them up into a narrow passageway, dimly lit and reeking of urine.  

He detaches himself from Steve and moves for a door marked _9b_. Brian offers Steve a sheepish look as he twists the key, apparently embarrassed. The drummer brims with anticipation.

Brian swings open the door and Steve steps in behind him.

“Jesus,” he mutters, and Brian seems to brace himself.

“Uh, Jesus, it’s warm in here,” he adds considerately, still glancing around at the stained wallpaper and the sagging plaster. The room contains minimal furniture; there is no television or stereo.   

 “Come through to my room,” Brian says, looking relieved.

“A little forward of you,” Steve jokes, but follows him nonetheless.

Steve spots a set of bongos lying beside a cushion on the floor; he picks them up and tucks them under his arm.

He taps out a soft beat with his palm as the smaller man fiddles with yet another lock. Brian presses his shoulder to the wood, forcing the door through the warped frame.

The tiny room skinks of stale cigarette smoke and weed; it seems to Steve that the air is almost hazy. Cream paint peels from the walls and vomit coloured carpet covers the floor.

The room is cluttered; a thin mattress lies on the floor with a nest of sheets and blankets atop it. Scraps of paper are scattered across the carpet; some crumpled, others torn to shreds. An old bed sheet flutters in front of an open window in place of a curtain. Beneath it three guitars sit; a red acoustic, an old bass with a broken string and a scratched up Telecaster. An amplifier and a four-track tape recorder are stacked awkwardly in the corner. The mouth piece of what Steve thinks might be a saxophone pokes out beneath a pile of clothing.

Brian picks his way through the mess, clearing a path for the both of them. He sweeps sundries from an upturned milk crate and places it carefully in an empty spot on the floor opposite the bed.

He plops down onto the mattress and gestures for Steve to take the makeshift seat. Steve steps slowly through the room, careful of where he places his feet. He places the bongos in front of the crate as he sits down.

 _What the fuck am I doing here?_ Steve wonders. He taps the drum skin awkwardly as he looks around the room.

“Can I get you a drink or something?” Brian asks. He looks as nervous as the drummer feels.

“Nah, I’m alright. C’mon, show me what you can do.”

The flicker of a smirk flashes across Brian’s face as he takes up his acoustic guitar. He strums softly, and then begins to tune the instrument. He hesitates before turning to face Steve.

“Okay, well this is something new I’ve been working on, no one else has heard it yet,”

Steve smiles and offers a nod of encouragement.

Brian takes a deep breath and strums. Steve watches his hands as he plays; he decides he likes the look of Brian’s nail varnish despite how chunky his fingers are.

The melody is upbeat, but the turning renders the music discordant.

Brian catches Steve’s eye and smiles as he sings.

Steve is transfixed; he is blown away by Brian’s voice. He sounds both sweet and strident, serious and then silly. His singing voice retains the varied intonations of an international upbringing.

It is completely unique; _he’s one of a kind_.

He finishes the song with several loud, quick strums. Steve remains silent, his mouth hanging open.

“Was it that bad?” Brian asks, chuckling uneasily.

“I, no, it was good. Really good,” Steve stammers.

Brian beams at him and Steve grins back.

"Hey,” Brian asks, sliding his acoustic guitar down beside him and reaching for the Telecaster, “Do you like The Cure?”

“Of course,” Steve replies and Brian looks pleased.

Brian drags out the amplifier and plugs the guitar in; feedback fuzzes as he fiddles with the knobs.

“I’ve been practising something,” he says with renewed confidence.

He begins to play and it takes Steve a moment to recognise the song. He drums along, alternating between slapping the skins with his palms then finger tips. Brian holds his gaze, nodding along to the tune.

The smaller man scowls as he plays the wrong note; Steve pretends not to notice. He focuses instead on how Brian’s face looks as he concentrates; his mouth slightly agape, brow furrowed.

“If only tonight we could sleep,” he sings softly over the haunting tune.

The pair complement each other easily; Steve throws hints of the lead rhythm into his drumming, harmonising effortlessly with Brian’s melody.

Brian fixes his eyes on the drummer.

"Then an angel would come, with burning eyes like stars..."

Both Steve’s heart and hands skip a beat; flustered, he struggles to find the right rhythm. Brian giggles as he plays out of time.

While Steve soon corrects himself, his embarrassment is evident as he finish the song awkwardly. 

_What the fuck am I doing here_ , he asks himself for the umpteenth time. Brian smiles kindly at him and he reluctantly admits to himself that this beautiful boy is _the exact reason he is here._  

“Well, that was-”

“Terrible,” Steve interjects.

Brian does not argue; he instead digs around beside the mattress, producing a blunt.

“I think perhaps we need little herbal refreshment,” he says as he lights it. “Loosen up a bit, y’know, _try something new,”_ he says pointedly as he passes the cigar to Steve.

The drummer obliges; excited by Brian’s suggestion of experimentation, whether it be musical or otherwise. His eyes water as he holds in the smoke, his head spinning. He wheezes as he hands the blunt back to Brian.   

The amplifier hums as he holds his guitar against himself, his arm against the neck of the instrument. A squeal sounds from the speaker as Brian shifts.

“There you go, you’ve already moved onto the industrial stuff,” Steve jokes.

Brian chuckles but reaches over to switch the amplifier off.

“I don’t know if the neighbours will appreciate noise-rock at this hour.”

Steve is not entirely discouraged.

“Do you have any pedals?”

“Just the basics; delay, reverb,” Brian pauses to take a toke; “A Boss, of course,” he adds and Steve nods.

“That’s all you need, really.” Brian looks at him curiously as he exhales a stream of smoke.

“You play then?”

“Only a little,” Steve admits and Brian seems impressed.

The pair continue to share the blunt in silence; Steve watches as Brian shuffles through papers and notebooks.

Brian rolls the shrinking cigar between his fingers, it has nearly burned through.

“ _Hey_ ,” he starts with a wry smile.

“Yeah?” Steve responds with a goofy grin; his body feels both light and heavy at once.

“Have you ever done blowbacks?”

Steve’s eyes widen with surprise as he misunderstands.

“I-I, um…”

Brian scoffs. He sits his guitar back in its place beneath the window then stands and walks over to where Steve sits.

“ _Blowbacks,_ ” Brian repeats carefully and some of the confusion fades from the drummer’s face. “Y’know, shotgun?”

Steve watches him intently as he leans down

“Like this,” Brian says, and then places the blunt backwards between his lips. His face is close to Steve’s; he cups his hands, sealing the space between their mouths. Brian exhales forcefully, blowing a thick stream of smoke into Steve’s mouth.

All too soon Brian moves back, plucking the butt from his mouth and flicking it aside.

Steve closes his eyes, unsure if the head rush is just from the pot, or the other man’s touch. His head swims and he wills away the spins.

“Steve?” Brian asks in a soft voice. He leans down and places a hand on his shoulder.

The drummer takes a deep breath; he concentrates on the buzz vibrating through his bones, the warmth radiating through his body in waves.

He opens his eyes to find Brian watching him, he looks concerned.

“Yeah?” Steve finally replies.

“Thought you were going to green out on me,” Brian sounds relieved.  

Steve shakes his head and Brian moves his arm away, looking awkward. Steve catches his hand, holding it tight.

“Steve?”

The drummer stands and pulls the other man toward him. Alarm bells ring somewhere in the back of his mind but his instincts urge him onwards. He slips his arm around Brian’s narrow waist, his fingers tracing bare flesh.

Brian gasps; he watches Steve with wide, sparkling eyes.

“Can I kiss you?” Steve immediately feels stupid for asking.

“I don’t know,” Brian says coyly, “Can you?”

Steve scoffs but holds the other man’s gaze. Brian smirks at him but Steve can feel how his breathing has changed, his body has tensed. He inches forward, his eyes locked on Brian’s.

Steve lets his actions speak for him, pushing his mouth against the other man’s. Brian’s lips part slightly and Steve traces them with his own. He pulls the smaller man closer; one hand stroking the back of his head, the other rests on his behind.

Brian relaxes in his arms; his kisses are returned tenderly, eagerly. Steve cannot believe how _amazing_ he feels; smooth skin, soft hair and full lips.

_Just like a woman._

Brian’s arms are around his neck and he presses himself hard against the drummer. Little moans escape his mouth as his kisses deepen. The sounds send shockwaves through Steve’s body; he tightens his grip on the other man; threading his fingers through his hair and clasping his arse firmly.

The smaller man shivers and swoons against him; Steve kisses him hungrily, pushing his tongue inside his mouth. Brian mirrors his actions, the motions melting into one. 

Steve wonders when he closed his eyes; he keeps them shut lest he be dreaming.

Brian slides his hands downward and takes Steve by the shoulders, guiding him slowly toward the wall. Steve barely notices that they are moving until his back hits the plaster with a thump.

Brian wraps his arms back around his neck; he presses himself roughly against Steve, forcing the drummer to gasp. The smaller man repeats the action, increasing the intensity of their embrace.

Steve groans as his arousal grows.

Brian stretches up again and grinds himself against the drummer; something hard digs into his thigh.

 _Hang on_.

Steve opens his eyes and Brian must sense his hesitation.

He looks at the man before him; his lips, full and flushed, parted as he pants. His eyes glow bright against his dark make-up; his irises are pools so deep Steve feels himself drowning.

“Don’t stop,” he finally says, his voice hoarse with longing.

“Are you sure?” Brian asks. Steve is uncertain if it is hurt or confusion that he hears in the question.

The drummer slides his hand around from Brian’s backside and trails his fingers up his thigh. He traces the bulge in Brian’s jeans, drawing whimpers from the smaller man.

Steve catches his bottom lip between his own and sucks; he kisses the corner of his mouth, then his cheek. Brian tilts his head slightly, allowing Steve to trail kisses along his jaw. The smaller man arches against his hand as Steve moves down his neck, alternating between nibbles and kisses.

The contact seems surreal to Steve; the other man’s body feels foreign yet at the same time incredibly familiar.

He rubs Brian’s erection roughly and Steve shudders as he moans. The smaller man fumbles with Steve’s fly, his fingers tracing the zip teasingly.

Brian seeks out Steve’s mouth as he takes his dick in his hand; the drummer gasps between kisses.

Suddenly Brian pulls away, falling to his knees before the other man. Steve misses his mouth for just a moment, before Brian wraps his lips around his cock and takes him to the back of his throat.

Steve cries out, his knees almost give way; he rests his hand on Brian’s head, stroking his hair as he bobs back and forth. He glances down to see Brian watching him from under his long, dark lashes.

The sight alone fuels Steve’s desire; his body aches with arousal.

Brian works with measured movements, sliding his fist up and down Steve’s shaft slowly while lavishing attention on the head of his cock.

The drummer feels himself drawn toward orgasm; he realises he wants more than this; _more of Brian_.

Steve slides his hand around and cups Brian’s cheek before reaching down to help him to his feet. The smaller man looks up at him curiously but takes his hand as he stands.

Brian begins to speak, but Steve’s mouth is again on his; the drummer kisses him tenderly as he directs him backwards. They move the short distance across the room clumsily, tripping over oddments on the floor and each other’s feet.

They finally reach the mattress and Steve pushes Brian down; the pair collapse in a tangle of limbs.

Their kisses quicken; Brian writhes beneath Steve, whimpering as the drummer drags himself over his crotch.

Out of breath, Steve sits up and pulls off his shirt; Brian props himself up on his elbows, panting as he watches the other man strip. Steve catches Brian’s eye and grins. He reaches over and slides his heavy jacket from the smaller man’s shoulders, surprised to find he is still wearing it. Brian shakes the jacket off and leans forward as Steve slips his hands up under his t-shirt. He traces his waist with his fingertips, then brushes over his ribs as he pulls the garment off.

Brian looks almost shy once shirtless; Steve admires his feminine physique, before glancing down his straining erection. He unbuttons Brian’s fly then slides his jeans off carefully.

“Are you sure about this?” Brian asks softly, his mouth against Steve’s ear.

Steve asks himself the same question. He studies the beautiful boy before him; his creamy complexion flushed pink, his glowing eyes now look almost green.

He growls a positive response as he runs his hands up Brian’s thighs; his palms rough against the smooth skin.

“Are _you_ sure?” He replies, resting his hands on the smaller man’s hips.

Brian giggles.

“Am _I_ sure? Oh, honey, _I’m sure_.”

He kisses Steve quickly then twists around, reaching for the head of the bed and searching beneath the mattress. Steve’s gaze sweeps the dip of his back, the curve of his rear.

Brian turns back to him, holding a bottle of lubricant and a foil package. The smaller man seems to sense Steve’s awkwardness; he sits aside the condom and then pours lubricant into his palm. He takes the drummer’s hand and slicks his fingers with the cool liquid.

He guides Steve’s hand toward his hole, all the while watching him with pleading eyes.

Gingerly, Steve pushes his index finger inside him, arching it upward as he would with a woman. Brian wraps his fist around Steve’s dick and slides up and down slowly, the motion is silky smooth. The drummer follows the pace set by Brian, gradually speeding up.

“You won’t break me,” Brian tells him, encouraging Steve to slip another finger inside. The smaller man moans as he does; Steve works faster, wanting to draw more sweet sounds from the singer’s mouth.

Brian falls back against the mattress, arching up to meet Steve’s touch. The drummer is bewitched by the sight of Brian before him; his pleasure is intoxicating.

Steve pushes a third finger in and Brian cries out with obvious pleasure.

“Please,” he pants.

Steve reaches for the condom, tearing the package with his teeth.  

“Ple- _ase_ ,” he asks again, apparently impatient.

Steve marvels at the boy before him; his delicate beauty, wraithlike charm. Even as he begs to be fucked, he looks like innocence personified.

Steve pulls his fingers out and rolls the condom on quickly; he takes a deep breath as he lines himself up with Brian’s hole.  

Brian leans forward, pressing his mouth hard against Steve’s. The drummer clasps his hips, digging in his fingers as he thrusts forward. Both men cry out as Steve buries himself inside Brian.

He pulls back slowly before pushing in again; Brian bites down on his lower lip, releasing as he withdraws. Steve kisses him back with the same intensity. He fucks Brian with deliberate, powerful movements, wanting to enjoy the sensations as long as possible.

Brian wraps his arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Steve feels his nails sink into his back each time his thrusts.

“Am I hurting you?” He asks, concerned.

“God, no,” Brian replies, breathless, before dragging him down into another kiss.

Steve speeds up as the smaller man bucks against him. Brian slides his fingers through his hair, his other hand has snaked down his own torso; he strokes himself desperately.

Knowing neither of them can last much longer, Steve moves faster still; he breaks away from the kiss, throwing his head back. Brian’s cries out as he climaxes, his voice cracking. Steve grunts as his insides tighten around his dick; he brushes his lips against Brian’s as he comes.

Exhausted, the drummer pulls out carefully before collapsing beside Brian. He slides the condom off and tosses it into a wastepaper basket at the foot of the bed.

Brian turns to face him; he looks blissed. Steve reaches over to brush loose strands of hair from his forehead; he tucks the locks behind Brian’s ear, and then sweeps his fingers across his bare shoulder, before resting his hand on his arm.

“Don’t leave,” Brian murmurs drowsily, snuggling in against the taller man. Steve wraps his arm around him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures him, yawning. Brian sighs sweetly. 

Steve struggles to stay awake; he cannot bear to let the moment slip away. 

“Does this make me a groupie?” Brian mumbles, tracing Steve's bicep lightly.

The drummer snorts.

“Yeah, I suppose,” he teases, stroking Brian’s hair.

“I thought, maybe…” Brian’s body tenses, his voice is barely a whisper.

“This feels like something special,” Steve says without thinking. 

He feels overwhelmed by his admission; he is surprised at himself but not ashamed. His body pulses pleasantly, buzzing with endorphins while still feeling heavy from intoxication and exertion.

Brian relaxes against him.

Steve pulls bedding over the both of them and presses his lips to the smaller man’s forehead, unsure if Brian is still awake.

As he feels himself sink into the arms of sleep, the drummer pictures Brian as he was just a short time ago; his eyes fixed on Steve as he strummed, struggling to hold in giggles as he sung.

The words weigh heavy on Steve’s mind, resonating as he fades from consciousness.

_Don’t let it end._

 


End file.
